


Excruciating

by fayedartmouth



Category: CHAOS (TV 2011)
Genre: Friendship, Gen, Hurt/Comfort, Torture
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-07-25
Updated: 2013-07-25
Packaged: 2017-12-21 07:45:39
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,513
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/897722
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/fayedartmouth/pseuds/fayedartmouth
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Tell me where your friends are.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Excruciating

**Author's Note:**

> Disclaimer: I do not own Chaos.
> 
> A/N: Sometimes I write torture fic. It’s hard to say why, but there you go :) Thanks to sockie1000 for the beta. This also works for my hc_bingo card.
> 
> Warning: Explicit torture.

It’s excruciating. 

The pain is slow and deliberate, cuts of a knife flaying the sweat-soaked skin across his exposed chest. The knife dances, tilting and weaving intricate patterns on his flesh, sweeping down toward his stomach and back up again. The ends of his nerves are frayed, his brain overloaded as he tries to think through the endless agony, splitting him apart one cell at a time as the blood starts to flow.

The knife hesitates at his navel, the blade sinking down point first. There’s a thrust, and Billy’s breath catches as it punches through skin and muscles. His body goes rigid, and he’s held taut as the knife stops suddenly, lingering with agonizing uncertainty before it twists.

His flesh moves beneath its, ripping like paper. He whimpers, trying to curl in, but his arms and legs are still immobilized, strapped down to the table. He’s splayed half naked, like some kind of sadistic offering to unkind gods. 

“You can make this stop,” the voice says even as the knife rotates further. It digs deeper and Billy almost convulses. “Tell me where your friends are.”

The knife starts slicing downward again, and the hot blood comes up fast and steady now. He feels it, pouring over his stomach and catching in the superficial cuts. It starts to trickle down his sides, pooling on the table beneath him as the knife continues its careful downward journey.

“These wounds are not fatal yet,” the voice continues. “The top layers of skin have numerous pain receptors. Even now, I have permeated to the muscle but have yet to penetrate the abdominal cavity. We can continue this for several hours before I do any irreversible damage.”

The point is punctuated by a sideways slice, moving across his stomach toward his hip bone. Billy gasps, the tears soaking into his blindfold now, as he tries with all he has to breathe through the excruciating agony.

“However, such methods are increasingly painful,” the voice continues as the knife stops when it hits bone.

Billy sobs, gritting his teeth together. He’s not sure he could talk now, not even if he wanted to.

It’s a relief when the knife is removed, but not much of one. He can feel each cut, the raw skin open and exposed to the cold air. The blood smells like copper, and it is starting to pool at his back. Still, in it all, he clings to one thing: several hours.

They can do this for several hours.

It’s a promise of torture, but Billy knows it’s a promise of hope just as much. Because Billy doesn’t even know where his friends are, but in several hours, they can find him.

They _will_ find him.

He just has to stay alive.

He doesn’t feel the movement until the knife comes down again, sliding under the skin of his bicep. He shudders, shaking his head pathetically as the knife slices away the top layer of skin, leaving the flap open and exposed.

“I hope you were not fond of your tattoo,” the voice observes. “If you would like, we can remove it entirely and use your skin to bind your obituary when we negotiate with your team to recover your remains.”

Billy’s chest constricts and his throat almost closes up entirely. He’s trembling now, the pain leaving him shaky and weak, the blood loss sapping his strength.

“Tell me where they are,” the voice encourages, moving the knife to Billy’s neck and creating a thin cut below his Adam’s apple. “Tell me where they are and you can still have an open casket at your funeral.”

Billy’s almost sick with the pain, and the overwhelming sensations are almost too much. He’s being skinned; he’s being tortured; he’s being effectively taken apart, peeled like an onion.

Still, the bastard can take as many layers as he wants, and he still won’t find what he’s looking for.

Billy forces a laugh, deep from his gut. “Sod off.”

The words are faltering, but sure. Even in the pain, though, Billy feels his hope rise, bolstering him. A few hours is a lifetime. A few hours is _forever._ There’s a lot this man can do to him -- but a lot more his team can do for him.

He just has to wait.

He just has to endure.

He just _has_ to.

There’s a shift in the air, and before Billy can brace himself, the knife comes down again, slamming with such force that he barely realizes what’s happening until his hand is is pinned to the table, the hilt of the blade buried against the top of his hand. When the pain starts, it’s a sudden, violent sensation that leaves him gaping and helpless. His heart races, his blood pours.

The knife wiggles for a moment before slowly being pulled free. “Very well, then,” he says. “Let’s see how much of yourself you are willing to lose.”

The knife swings down again, this time impaling Billy’s other hand. He howls, bucking against his bindings to no avail. He’s crying in full now, hot tears burning his eyes as his entire body rebels desperately against the onslaught he can’t control.

Again the knife pulls free. “Don’t overdo it now,” the voice cajoles as Billy thrashes helplessly. “We’re just getting started.”

The knife moves faster now, and Billy feels the turns of the blade as it spells _SPY_ across his chest. He feels the white hot pain when it gouges his thigh, when it neatly cuts off his pinky toes. He feels it as it wedges under his thumbnails, separating the skin from the nail before removing them all together.

His stomach rebels, and he almost chokes on bile. The voice laughs, fisting a hand into his hair and pushing his head roughly to the side until he clears it. Then, the knife nicks his scalp, cutting a chunk of hair and flesh clean off before his head is lifted and slammed back mercilessly.

“Tell me where your friends are,” is the mantra, cutting into his brain, deep into his subconsciousness. He feels the words as they divide him, testing his loyalties and his self control, flaying who he is and who he wants to be until he is laid bare and empty and exposed.

“Tell me where your friends are,” is the demand borne on the tip of a blade, spelled out with his blood and tears.

His only answer is his tears, his cries, as he holds on, as he endures.  
 _  
Tell me where your friends are.  
_  
And Billy doesn’t know. He wants to know, he hopes to know, he _needs to know._

Then, the knife stops. There’s a clatter and a scuffle and when someone reaches down to touch him, Billy flinches.

But the hands are steady and gentle, carefully untying his wrists, his ankles before rolling him on his side.

The pain lances through him but he has no energy left to move. When the blindfold is removed, Michael is there, a hand on the side of his face, watching him earnestly. “Billy?”

It still hurts; it’s still unending, unyielding, uncontrollable pain. Billy’s crying and he’s shaking and the edges of his vision are dim. But he smiles. Because he knows the answer now, the answer to the question. _Where are your friends._

“You’re here,” Billy murmurs, even as his energy fails him. Michael’s palm presses against his cheek and Casey’s hand steadies his shoulder as Martinez stands just behind them, wide-eyed and scared. 

“Of course we are,” Michael says lightly, but Billy can see the regret in his eyes. “Sorry it took so long.”

“We had a bit of trouble with the locals,” Casey adds.

“But we should have a clear exit now,” Rick says, glancing over his shoulder. “But, um. We should probably get going.”

Billy nods but makes no effort to move. The pain is fading, dissipating to a heavy numbness that is overtaking his senses. “Got here just in time,” he slurs.

Michael looks doubtful. “Hey,” he says, jostling Billy’s face a little more, using his other hand to press down on the worst of the wounds on Billy’s stomach. “Stay with me.”

“Lasted this long,” Billy says. “Wouldn’t leave now.”

“You better not,” Michael lectures. “Now come on, we’ll have you out of here in no time.”

It’s a surreal promise after all this, but it’s not one that Billy doubts. Because he doesn’t know how bad it is; he’s not even sure there’s much left of him to take home. But really, he’s not sure there’s ever been much of him to find at all. That’s why torture doesn’t work. There’s no part of himself he’s afraid to lose.

Not when his team will always be there to get it back.

Not when his team will find all the pieces -- and stay by until he’s put back together again.

Gently, Michael pulls Billy up and he sags. Every movement is excruciating again, but he’s made it this long.

He thinks, for his team, he can make it a little longer yet.


End file.
